


Observing the Proprieties

by birdsofshore



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Community: hp_crossgenfest, Cross-Generation Relationship, Detention, Exhibitionism, Inappropriate Erections, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Potions, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Praise Kink, Professor Draco Malfoy, Teacher-Student Relationship, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 14:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7805866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofshore/pseuds/birdsofshore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Malfoy is determined to teach his students to follow his instructions to the letter. The problem is that Albus enjoys detention just a little too much. </p><p>Please note, the age difference in this fic is 17/43.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Observing the Proprieties

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the lovely shiftylinguini for this most tempting and delicious prompt, to my beta for being endlessly patient and helpful, and to gracerene for general brilliance.

***

It’s just my luck that the week always finishes with double Potions. Even the thought of it sends a squirm of discomfort through me. I’m so rubbish at Potions. Always have been. Dad says not to worry, that he was exactly the same, but then why pressurise me into taking a bloody NEWT in it?

Anyway, Rose helps me loads with my homework, thank Merlin, but there’s only so much she can do during the actual lesson before Professor Malfoy notices and starts getting all sarcastic. 

I haven’t told anybody this, but that’s actually the worst thing.

 _Professor Malfoy_.

Even his name makes my skin prickle with a weird feeling. He’s so intimidating, with his snooty voice and his haughty looks. But, worse than that… I actually find him really _hot_. I can’t help it; believe me, I have tried. But I’m at the point right now where he could say “Turn to page 394” and I’d have a raging hard-on before I could reach for my textbook. 

I tried talking to Rose about it once, asking her if she thought Professor Malfoy was kind of fit for an older guy. She made a face like she was going to throw up, and I pretended I was just joking around. But he _is_ fit. I’ve seen him fly, and he’s pretty hot stuff on a broom. I like the way he wears his hair off his face, showing off his sharp features. And he’s got some really cool tattoos – I saw them once when he was changing his robes after bat’s blood got spilled on them. There’s a silvery dragon on his shoulder, its tail winding around his biceps. And some faded thing on his arm, I couldn’t see exactly, but something like a snake, maybe, all menacing coils. I stood in the doorway, fixed to the spot, watching his muscles shift as he pulled his robes over his head, but then he noticed me and slammed the door shut.

Trust me to get a crush on someone miles out of my reach. I’ve got half the Gryffindor Quidditch team in my dorm, for god’s sake, but it’s Professor Malfoy who saunters into my mind when I slide a hot hand under the covers after lights out.

Trust me to totally fail at everything I try to do in his class.

***

Albus Severus Potter is a disgrace to my classroom. The boy can barely brew so much as a passable Shrinking Solution without referring to the textbook, and for anything more challenging, he’s a positive liability.

Friday afternoons are the most galling time of the whole week. The Gryffindor students are flighty and distracted, and I’m invariably tired and irritable and thinking of the pile of marking which awaits me over the weekend as a reward for another week’s teaching. I admit, perhaps brewing a Dissembling Draught isn’t the most reasonable task to set them. But it entertains me to see their faces fall as they scan the long and detailed list of ingredients.

When brewed correctly, the potion gives the drinker the ability to almost blend into the background. It’s not an Invisibility Potion, of course – no such thing exists – but it can certainly help with concealment. A useful little thing. But one no seventh year student is capable of, apparently.

“Miss Weasley.” I let my voice drip with distaste as I peer at the lurid mess in her cauldron. “What _exactly_ do you call this?” 

Her brow is furrowed with frustration. “It looked perfect a minute ago… turquoise, just like you said, Professor, until I added the saltpetre, and then—”

“Did you use an oak stirring rod as instructed?”

“What?” The girl runs her eyes over her textbook. “It doesn’t say anything about that here!”

“And yet I told you quite plainly last week, Miss Weasley, that a glass rod is never advisable when working with saltpetre.” There’s an ominous bubbling sound from the back of the classroom, but I ignore it.

“If it’s so important, why didn’t you remind us _today_?” she asks, her cheeks flushing with annoyance, and I take a sharp breath, ready to deal with such insolence harshly, when—

“Professor Malfoy!”

It’s Anthea Milton, calling urgently from the back.

“Professor Malfoy, I think Albus’s potion is going to—” 

I see a brief flash of panicked green eyes, then there’s a loud bang which sets my ears ringing and the classroom is enveloped in a billowing cloud of acrid yellow smoke. What now? I can’t see a thing, but I wave my wand in a simple dispersal spell, to little effect. Somebody is screaming, and many more are coughing.

“Silence!” I make my voice ring out, carrying through the room, and nearly everyone falls quiet. I cast again. “ _Purifico_ ,” and this time the smoke thins a little so I can see students’ faces through the fog. Most are wide-eyed, a couple look as if they find the whole affair most entertaining, and then there’s Albus Potter, who has backed away from his cauldron in horror, his face a picture of anxiety.

“Stop that ridiculous noise,” I snap at Bartlett who is still coughing dramatically. “Can anyone tell me what in the name of Salazar has gone on here?”

There’s a tense silence, then Anthea raises a hand. “It was Albus’s potion, sir!”

Rose Weasley gives Anthea a look as if she’d like to Hex her, but although I see young Potter swallow hard, he doesn’t deny it. 

“Potter?” I fix him with a scathing look. “Can you explain yourself?”

“I don’t know what happened. It was a bit lively right from the start, but then I forgot to watch it, and it…” He gestures to the remains of the smoke. “Did that.”

“Give me strength.” I close my eyes briefly, and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to summon some reserves of patience. 

No. Nothing remains.

“Right. Class dismissed.” They gape at me. There’s still half an hour to go according to the timetable. “Get out of here, the lot of you!” Nobody hesitates a second time. They snatch up textbooks and bags and jostle one another in their hurry to leave, with young Albus looking as if he’s just escaped mortal peril.

“Mr Potter…” I say, just as he reaches the doorway.

He turns, and I feel a thrill uncoil in my belly at the sight of his apprehension. There’s always been something about him. Something that makes me want to get under his skin.

I drawl the words out slowly. “Not you.”

His eyes widen again. So like his father. But his father never looked at me like this, with respect and perhaps a little fear. “No?” he asks.

“No,” I repeat firmly.

Rose Weasley loiters as the others leave. “ _You_ are dismissed,” I tell her. 

“It wasn’t Albus’s fault,” she says stubbornly.

“Oh, really?” I raise an eyebrow at her. “Whose was it then? Yours? Perhaps you’d like to join him in detention?”

“Just go, Rose,” Albus mutters, and reluctantly, she does.

And then it’s just young Potter and I. The air still has a musky heaviness to it from the potion fumes.

“Well, well, Mr Potter,” I say slowly, noticing again the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “What are we going to do with you?”

***

I don’t know how it happened. I always manage to do something bloody wrong. Everything has to be so precise – I mean, who cares if it’s an oak stirrer or a glass one, for Merlin’s sake? But apparently, it matters.

I’ve never managed to make a potion _explode_ before, though. I almost feel it’s an achievement.

“You can begin by clearing all this away,” Professor Malfoy tells me. At first I think he means the thick, lumpy mixture that fills my cauldron and lies splattered around on the desks and floor, and that’s bad enough. But I see his arm sweep around the room and realise that he means _all_ of the cauldrons on everybody’s desks.

“Oh, no,” I groan. I’ve got Quidditch next, and this will take hours.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, all haughty. ”Is there something you wish to say to me?”

I shake my head, but— Oh hell. What have I got to lose? “It’s Quidditch practice, sir. I’ll miss it. I’m the Chaser.”

His eyes are stormy. “You should have considered that before you befouled my classroom with your inattention.” 

Even while my heart is sinking, part of me is loving the way he speaks. _Befouled_. I mean, come on, that’s such a great word. I’m totally going to save that one up to use on Jamie when he leaves our room in a mess.

I sigh, but under my breath. Might as well get on with it. I push up the sleeves of my robe and get to work. The splotches of liquid that flew out of the cauldron are easy enough to deal with; a few quick spells and you’d never know my potion decided to make a break for freedom. But the stuff in the bottom of the cauldron is another matter. Professor Malfoy never lets us use magic to clean our brewing equipment; he says it taints the process and for all I know, he may even be right. I quickly clean my knives and stirring rods and tuck them away safely, before lugging the cauldron to the sinks at the side of the classroom. I’m soon up to my elbows in soapy water and scrubbing away, but whatever it is that’s stuck to the bottom is not shifting. 

After a couple of minutes I stop for a breather. Maybe I could just use a quick spell on it. I glance around to see if Professor Malfoy will notice. He’s putting ingredients away in the cabinets at the back of the classroom, directing his wand to send the bottles and phials bobbing through the air and onto the correct shelves. Damn, he looks good doing it, his sharp face unsmiling. I know it takes a lot of concentration to levitate objects precisely like that, but he’s lounging against his desk, his arm moving lazily to and fro with what looks like no effort at all.

He sees me looking and raises an eyebrow, his wand poised in mid-air. “Is that mess coming off?”

“No sir. It won’t budge.” I scrub some more, but all that’s happening is that I’m getting a cramp in my arm.

He makes a small, smug sound. _Bastard_. I see another bottle flick past me and back to its shelf. “You wouldn’t be tempted to use magic at all, I hope?”

I say nothing, but I can feel my ears getting hot. I don’t know if he can see, but he gives a small laugh, low in his throat. “Better scrub harder, Potter.”

I push my sleeves back again and go at it. I bet the others are all heading outside right now. I can imagine kicking off from the pitch with my broom between my legs, the good sweet smell of grass and earth and Quidditch leathers instead of the harsh stink of cauldron soap that catches at the back of your throat. I’m going to be stuck here forever doing this. I give a little growl of frustration and then jump as Professor Malfoy is there at my elbow. He moves so stealthily sometimes.

“That seems to be resisting all your efforts.”

I grunt a reply.

“Try this,” he tells me, holding out a jar of something like a chalky paste.

I take a generous scoop – it’s gritty, and smells faintly of lemons – and apply it to the residue. Straight away it starts to shift, the stubborn coating seeming to melt away.

He stands close to me, watching over my shoulder. “Better?”

“Loads,” I say. “Thanks, Professor.” I throw a smile at him, relieved and grateful, and the look he gives me in return is… I don’t know what it is, but his eyes flash for a moment. It’s funny, the way you can never really tell what he’s thinking. 

I take another scoop of his miracle stuff and slather it all around the inside of the cauldron. He just stands there, watching, and when I look up at him, there’s an intense look on his face that makes something in my stomach turn over. 

When he speaks, his voice is perfectly steady. “Chaser, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I played Seeker, myself.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I’ve seen you fly,” and then I’m wishing I could swallow the words, because I just pretty much admitted that I’ve _watched_ him, and—

“You have, have you?” He doesn’t sound displeased. He leans nearer to take another look in the cauldron, and as he does so, his chest brushes up against my side, and for a moment I feel the firm heat of his body pressed against me, one long, delicious line, and then it’s gone.

“That seems to have done the trick,” he says, and it takes far too long before I realise he means the cauldron. I can’t look at him as I take it back to my desk and use a soft cloth to buff it dry. 

Now. Just twenty odd other cauldrons to scour out.

Damn it to hell.

Professor Malfoy is leaning against the row of sinks, apparently intending to oversee the job. Perhaps he just likes seeing someone else get their hands dirty. I sigh and push back my sleeves again, though they’re getting damp anyway.

“You have my permission to take your robes off, Mr Potter.” His voice sounds amused, and the thing is, it would be so much easier just to work in shirt and trousers, but I can’t. I can’t, because my robes are the only thing that’s hiding the fact I’m more than half-hard. 

I’m not sure when it started. Probably when I saw him tossing his magic about with casual precision, as though it were nothing at all. Or maybe when he was talking to Rose – I know he was being a bastard to her, but she’s more than capable of standing up to him, and there’s just something about his face when he’s riled… a sort of sly, cruel look that makes you think he’s probably capable of stuff we can only imagine. The kind of kinky stuff I think about sometimes when I’m alone, about men who’d get me to undress while they watched, about kneeling and being tied up and—

Fuck, this is _really_ not helping.

So you see, it’s hard not to get distracted when he’s standing all close and giving me those sort of looks, like he can see right into my head. It’s not like it’s the first time this has happened during Potions, even. And now, his mere presence watching me scrub out bloody cauldrons is encouraging my erection into the kind of solid, determined presence that every seventeen-year-old knows only too well.

I realise he’s still waiting for an answer. I have to wet my lips before I can speak. “I’m OK like this, thank you, sir.”

He gives me a curious look and then goes back to sit at his desk. Thank Merlin. I let out a long breath and adjust myself surreptitiously under my robes. Now, if I can just clean another nineteen cauldrons without anything else going wrong, I’ll be doing just fine.

***

It makes sense to press on with my marking while the boy tackles the remaining cauldrons. He is persistently inattentive in class, but perhaps this will teach him to listen properly to my instructions. I take the first scroll of parchment from my desk and unroll it. Let’s see what Mr Clarence Bunthorne has to say. I’ve barely read an inch before I can feel the tension throbbing at my temples again. Three spelling mistakes in the first paragraph and the assertion that antimony is a good choice of ingredient to use in healing potions.

“ _Yes, if you want to finish the patient off completely_ ,” I mutter, and I see Albus’s head swing round towards me. 

“Did you say something, sir?”

“No, no.” I wave my quill in a dismissive gesture. “How are you getting on?”

“OK. I’ve still got seventeen to go but at least they’re not burnt… well, only one or two of them, anyway.” He sighs as he turns back to his work, and for some reason it tugs at my heart just a little. I think it’s the way he’s so resigned to his fate, so obedient. So unlike his arrogant father.

I look back at my pile of marking. Neither of us are finding much joy in our task, it seems. And it is Friday afternoon. No doubt his housemates are all tearing about on the Quidditch pitch, while I’d rather be in my study with a bottle of nicely-chilled gin, and perhaps a new copy of Quidditch Illustrated. The Canadian team are looking particularly fine this season… 

Something brings to mind the hip flask I keep secreted in my desk for emergencies. I let my eyes flick back to the boy. He’s diligently scouring away, only occasionally stopping to brush his hair out of his eyes. A quick drink wouldn’t hurt, and then the marking would seem far less tedious, I’m sure. I duck behind the desk as if hunting for something, and take a slow swig of brandy. 

Hmm, yes. That feels better already. I’d never usually drink on the job, but I’m practically off duty, and he’ll never notice if I take another pull from the flask… Warmth settles in my stomach, and something in me loosens just enough for a smile to tug at my lips.

It’s quite pleasant to watch Albus there working away. His boyish frame is filling out into that of a young man, not scrawny like his father was at school. He’s not lacking in intelligence, either – his essays show a modicum of sense, and I don’t think all of it is cribbed from Miss Weasley. In fact, I’d wager that with the right guidance he could make a half-decent potioneer. I make a snap decision and put my quill down.

“Mr Potter.” 

He looks round, a curious mixture of anxiety and anticipation on his face. 

“You may leave the rest,” I tell him, and his eyes widen hopefully as I stand up. “We are going to spend the remainder of the afternoon teaching you how to brew a perfect Dissembling Draught.”

A groan falls from his lips, a soft, intriguing sound, and for some reason I feel it right in my core. But it’s hard not to take his look of misery as a personal insult. “Do you hate this class so very much?” 

He grimaces. “No, it’s not that… I wouldn’t mind Potions at all if I wasn’t so useless at it.”

“Your marks appear to have deteriorated somewhat this year.”

“Yeah, I know.” His shoulders are slumped. “I was never exactly brilliant, but…” One hand scrubs at his hair. “It just seems so hard to follow, you know? You have to do everything perfectly, or the whole thing goes wrong.” 

I make a little noise of agreement, and it seems to encourage him to continue.

“And the NEWT level stuff is much harder.”

“It’s perfectly simple, Mr Potter. One merely follows the instructions in the correct order. That’s all there is to it.”

He makes a little grunt of frustration. “There are so many steps. And I—” He drops his gaze to the floor. “I can’t always concentrate very well,” he says quietly.

I click my fingers and point, setting a yellow flame flickering from the burner on the nearby desk. “Today, you _will_ concentrate, Mr Potter. You will not leave until you have completed the task successfully.”

His Adam’s apple bobs again. From his face you think I’d asked him to clean the Augean stables in a day. “Oh, hell. Would you… would you help me, sir?” He looks up at me from under his fringe, his eyes wide in entreaty. Something about the situation is rather appealing. 

I incline my head. “I will instruct you.”

He chews at his lip.

“And you will follow my instructions.” I fix him with my eyes, my voice low and commanding. “ _To the letter_.” 

He makes a sound a bit like a whimper, but I pay no attention. I shall teach this boy the rudiments of brewing if it is the last thing I do. I roll up my sleeves, pushing them back in crisp, neat folds. I can feel his eyes on me, and when I look up, he’s staring at the faded sigil of the Dark Mark on my forearm. I wonder if he knows what it is, and something about the thought makes me speak sharply. 

“Have your tools ready,” I tell him, and he unfastens his knife roll and lays it in front of us. There’s a sheen of sweat on his top lip and I feel a ridiculous urge to swipe my thumb over it. Instead I bury my hands deep in my robes. “Now. We shall begin.”

***

It’s not so bad as he talks me through the first few steps. My face screws up with the effort of concentrating, but everything seems to go smoothly. The mixture is simmering gently and giving off a faint odour of liquorice, just as Professor Malfoy said it would.

“Now for the second pinch of orris root,” he tells me. “Don’t forget to keep stirring all the time. You’ll see the fumes change temporarily from grey to lilac, and then just as they start to turn back again, that’s when you add the sprigs of valerian.” His voice is actually quite soothing when he’s not annoyed; it’s low and steady, and I even start to relax a little. I drop in the pinch of powder. “Good,” he says, and I feel a flush of heat spreading across my cheeks at the praise. 

I remember to watch the fumes, though, and as the shimmering steam turns a distinct lilac colour, I reach for the valerian.

“Stop.” He grips my arm at the elbow. I’m so confused and I look up into his face. _What did I do_?

He shakes his head. “ _Concentrate_.”

“But I did – you said add the valerian…” I look down at the herb in my hand and, damn it, I’ve picked up the asphodel by mistake. I snatch up the valerian instead and, just in time, drop it in. 

I can still feel the pressure of his hand on my arm, the strength of his grip, even though he’s let go.

“Better. Now stir in a figure of eight; aim for ten stirs to the minute.”

Bloody hell. I begin, but instantly his hand reaches for my wrist. I can see how he would have made a brilliant Seeker. 

“No. Too fast.” He guides me in a slow, steady motion, the rod gliding through the potion. “We have practised this many times in class – you should be able to judge the speed by now quite easily. Don’t rush it.” He’s standing so close to me. I feel sweat collecting on my forehead and my hand threatens to tremble, but Professor Malfoy just holds my wrist more firmly. “ _Smoothly_. Like this.”

After four or five rotations I feel I’m getting the hang of it, and he loosens his grasp. “Yes. That’s much more like it.”

Again that rush of heat to my skin, the words of praise leaving me almost dizzy, but I don’t let my hand falter.

“Another minute and you can add the powdered lacewings.”

Fumes from the potion rise up, but as he leans in to examine the mixture, I can smell the Professor’s cologne, and something that I think must be the heady warm scent of his skin. Man, my mouth is watering just from being so close to him. He’s unbuttoned his shirt a little and I can see pale skin and the jut of his collarbones beneath.

I’ve lost count again and he’s frowning. “The lacewings?”

“Of course. Sorry.” I measure a scoop and level it off with a knife before dropping it in – at least I know how to do _that_ properly – and he nods approval.

“Now crush the spleenwart. Remember not to touch it with your hands if you can avoid it. It has to be very fresh or it won’t coagulate properly.”

I do my best but he shakes his head. “No, no. Let me show you.” He moves behind me and brings both hands around to cover mine, one on the knife, one on the sticky piece of spleenwart. Merlin. His body is pressed up against mine, a long line of heat flaring along my spine. “You see, if you use the flat of the blade…” 

His hands move deftly over mine, his fingers smooth and clever, making quick work of it. He steps closer still and he feels lean and strong, he smells unfairly amazing, and oh fuck, I’m hard, proper, eye-watering hard, all for Professor Malfoy and the firm press of his body against my arse. It’s all I can do not to push back against him, but god, can you imagine the shit I’d be in if I did that? I know they’re a bit bonkers about stuff at Hogwarts – some of the things we’re allowed to get away with is just crazy – but I reckon coming on to a Professor would probably get me expelled. Not to mention what Mum and Dad would say.

“Mr Potter.”

Shit. “What?” _Shit_. “I mean, yes, sir?”

“You are _not_ concentrating.” His voice is all stern again, and, oh hell, I think I might like that even more than when he sounds pleased with me.

“Sorry, sir.” My voice has gone all croaky.

“This next stage is crucial.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rests his hands on my shoulders and speaks close to my ear. “You will never master the art of potions if you allow yourself to be distracted, I can promise you that.”

I might as well quit the subject right now, in that case. How can I concentrate when I’m as hard as this bloody oak stirring rod? But I don’t say anything.

“Listen to me. And do exactly as I say.”

A whimper rises up in my throat but I do my best to muffle it.

“You’re good at following instructions when you actually bother to listen.”

Sweat is trickling down my back, under my robes.

“Aren’t you, Albus?”

I will myself not to squeak. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, draw your wand.”

I fumble in my robes for it.

“Use it to add the spleenwart. Never use your fingers.”

My hands are distinctly shaking now, but I manage to levitate the crushed plant and get it safely into the cauldron.

“Now turn down the heat… and wait. Some textbooks advise one to keep stirring at this point but that is drivel. The potion needs at least five minutes to settle without interference, and possibly up to twenty, depending on the freshness of the ingredients.”

I let out a sigh of relief and go to put my wand back in my pocket.

“You may relax for a few minutes. Sit down and take off your robes.”

 _Hell_. “I’m fine as I am, sir, thank you.”

“Go ahead – it’s stuffy in here.”

Oh, holy Merlin, no. I pull my robes around myself with both hands.I feel my face burning. “Honestly, sir!”

“Come now. Off with them.”

Oh, god. “I—” It seems unthinkable to defy him. But surely, I can’t—

“ _This instant_ , boy.”

It’s as if my hands move without my consent to pull aside the material and show him. Show him the hard outline of my erection, thick and unmistakable through the soft wool of my trousers.

There’s a long silence as he stares, his eyes burning into my body, taking in every inch of my shame. And then...

“Well, well, Mr Potter,” he says again, and this time there’s a glint in his eye that sends a shiver through me, curling deep in my stomach. “What _are_ we going to do with you?

***

I don’t know exactly what has got into me. Only that the sight of Albus Potter’s eager cock straining at the fly of his uniform trousers seems to have addled my brain so that I’m not quite myself.

There’s something about his expression; his face, so like his father’s, but looking at me with entreaty instead of disdain. It’s an effort to keep my expression composed as befits a Professor. “So you thought you could keep this hidden from me, did you? What did I tell you about allowing yourself to be distracted in my class?”

The boy is red as a ripe tomato. He bites his lip. “That I mustn’t do it, sir.”

“Quite. No wonder you fail to master even the basics of this subject when you are clearly entertaining filthy thoughts instead of listening.”

His face screws up unhappily. “I _was_ listening, sir.”

“So how do you explain this shameful display?” I gesture to his rather impressive erection. Interesting to note that it doesn’t seem to have faltered in the least, despite the boy’s embarrassment.

His voice is a mere whisper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just... when you... I couldn’t help it.”

His pleading eyes… the mix of fear and arousal I see there. I could be tempted. Quite tempted. But, of course, I have my position to think of. Twelve years teaching Potions and never once I have laid hands on a student inappropriately.

“Well, this will not do. This will not do at all.” 

“No, sir.” He hangs his head unhappily.

Even so… I pride myself on being an excellent judge of character, and instinct tells me quite clearly that the boy won’t breathe a word to anyone about this. Something reckless stirs in my belly. It would be unprofessional in the extreme to touch a student. But what if I _don’t_ touch him? Besides, the week I’ve had... I’m damned if I don’t deserve a little relaxation. 

“This needs to be dealt with immediately if you are to continue with this lesson.”

His face is almost irresistible in its confusion. Then he wets his lips nervously, and there’s no _almost_ about it. “Well? Go ahead, then,” I tell him.

His eyes are wide but he doesn’t move. “Y–you mean...?”

“You know exactly what I mean. Stop feigning innocence.”

“But, sir—” He’s pale and he looks a little as if he might cry. But his pupils are wide and black and full of yearning.

“Do you want me to inform the Headmistress about this matter?”

“Oh, god, no—” 

“Very well, then.” I sit back on a desk and fold my arms. “I’m waiting.”

“You– you want me to…?”

I give a curt nod. “Take it out.” A little strangled sound comes from his mouth, but his hands move to his belt and he begins to unbuckle it.

“Be quick about it. I don’t have all day.”

His hands fumble over his buttons, but he manages nonetheless and I see tight white boxers stretched obscenely over a girthy-looking cock. I have to swallow before speaking. “I’m still waiting.”

His eyes are wide with amazement as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and pulls. Merlin. His cock springs out from a thatch of black curls, flushed and thick, and damp at the tip. I let myself look, just look. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen anything quite so compelling.

“....Sir?” His voice quavers with uncertainty.

I force myself to focus on his face again. “Well, Mr Potter? How do you usually deal with a problem such as this?”

“Oh, god.” His mouth is slack with astonishment and desire, but he only hesitates for a moment, and then my own prick leaps in sympathy as he wraps a broad palm around his shaft. “I– I don’t know if I can… with you there.” He’s tense with awkwardness, but his hand is already finding a comfortable grip, easing his foreskin back a little and smoothing pre-come over the head.

“Surely you wouldn’t disobey an order from me?”

“Uh, no.” His Adam’s apple bobs heavily in his narrow throat and he wets his lips. “Are you ordering me, then, Professor Malfoy?” He sounds shy, but there’s a spark of something in his eyes which interests me very much.

I don’t answer for a moment, giving him a long appraising look which has him squirming. “Yes, Mr Potter. I think you know exactly what I want you to do.”

“ _Uhhhh_.” His eyes flutter closed for a moment and I let my eyes run greedily over the picture he makes standing there. I intend to remember every single detail. His eyes flicker open as if to check that I’m really there, and when he sees my gaze on him, a shiver runs right through him.

“Oh, hell.” His face twists up, almost as if in pain, and his hand moves, but very warily. 

I shift position on the desk as I watch, trying to relieve the pressure on my own cock, imprisoned against the seam of my trousers. “Come on, boy, it’s not going to bite you. Take a proper hold of it and do the job properly.”

“ _Uhhh_ …” He grips himself a little more firmly and a fresh bead of pre-come forms at his slit. “I – uhh – can’t believe this is really happening.”

“What do you expect if you behave in such an unacceptable way in my classroom?”

My voice seems to spur him on. He increases his pace, his hand skimming the thick head with every stroke. Who knew this mouth-wateringly fat prick was hiding under Potter’s robes? That knowledge would have made my Friday afternoons far less tedious, let alone the fact that he’s so deliciously biddable...

“Use your other hand as well.” My voice sounds slightly gruff.

He gulps nervously, but there’s a beautiful flush rising up from under his collar. “H–how?”

“Your balls.” His face is such a picture. “Stroke them,” I tell him.

His hand dips obediently into his boxers and I frown. “No, no. Pull them down. How else can I see whether you’re doing it correctly?”

His expression is divinely tortured as he stops to rearrange his pants and trousers around his thighs. I let my eyes feast on lean muscle sprinkled with dark hair and, Merlin, what I’d give to get him naked. But we must observe the proprieties.

He begins to settle his bare backside against the desk but I bark out, “No.” He looks up in alarm. 

“You will remain standing until we have finished.”

“O–OK.” He takes his cock in hand again while the other cradles his balls. He gazes up at me as if for approval. 

“Spread your legs a little. Good.” A soft sound escapes from his throat, and I wonder… “ _Very_ good, Albus.” Yes, there it is again. I believe he likes to please me, this boy. If he wasn’t watching I would slide a hand under my robes, to where my own cock is throbbing with anticipation. But I can wait. There’ll be plenty of time for that later. 

His hand has quickened and I can see the tension already building in his thighs.

I tut. “That’s far too fast. You’ll hardly last five seconds at that rate.”

His whimper merely confirms I’m correct.

“Slowly. Much more slowly. Ten strokes to the minute. Let the pressure build.” His cock twitches and I can imagine all too well the overwhelming ache of arousal, how desperate he must be to come. My voice softens a little. “Eke it out a little and the results will be far more satisfactory.”

“I– I can’t—” His eyes widen. “Oh, god. Would you– would you show me how?”

“What?” I think I just about manage to sound suitably displeased.

“Please, sir. Would you do it for me? _Please_.” 

His eyes are pleading with mine. It would be so easy, to reach out and touch him. To feel his eager young cock thrusting into my hand. To have him trembling on the brink, to make him beg for my touch, to— 

It would be so easy to lose my head and simultaneously end my career.

***

For a moment I think he’s actually going to do it, and I just hope that I can last longer than a few seconds before going off like a rocket.

Then his face clouds over and I know it’s never going to happen. “ _No_ , Albus.” He looks furious.

Oh god, what have I done? I’m so turned on, I don’t even know what’s happening. Did I actually just ask Professor Malfoy to wank me off? 

“I don’t know how you dare suggest such a thing.” He sounds disgusted. “It would be entirely inappropriate.”

I can feel my lip trembling. “I– I’m sorry, sir.” I don’t know if I should keep touching myself or not? My erection feels like it’s been carved out of stone and I think I might cry if he tells me to stop now. “Can I– can I carry on, though? Please?”

He rolls his eyes. “Very well. But no more of that frantic tugging.”

“No, sir.” I suppress a groan at the feel of my own hand cupping my balls.

“I expect better from a student your age.”

“Yesss, sir.” I let my hand glide as slowly as I can bear, gripping my shaft until I reach the head and then _slowly_ — “Oh, _fuck_.”

“Watch your language, Mr Potter, unless you want to earn yourself another detention.”

Oh, hell, I do, I _do_. “I’m sorry— _uhhh_ , oh, ohhhh.”

“That’s more like it. Yes. Spread your legs wider. Oh yes. And a little more pressure there – good. That feels better, doesn’t it?”

It’s such a fucking turn on, him telling me what to do. Better than my fantasies. _Way_ better than the time me and Nathan Longbottom did this together under the Quidditch stands.

“Use your wrist, boy. It’s not some cheap broomstick you’re polishing. Show some finesse.”

Pleasure is bubbling through my veins, hot and intense, distracting the hell out of me, but I try to do everything he asks. He just sits there, watching, his eyes fixed on me, on the slow movement of my hand, and I start to lose it. I brace my legs so as not to fall, my cock slick with pre-come, my hand gliding over it as smoothly as I can manage.

“Yes. Yes, that’s good. That’s so good, Albus. Just like that.”

I want to keep watching him but it’s too much. I can feel it building higher, so much heat and want and _Merlin_ , I can’t believe I’m actually doing this right here in the classroom and he’s watching me. I let my head fall back, arch my back so that my cock is thrusting towards him. He makes a sound – like a stifled groan – and I’m so close, so fucking close.

“Yes. You’re going to come, aren’t you?” He sounds almost fierce.

I hold my breath as a swell of blazing need surges through my balls, and then—

“Come, Albus. Come _now_.”

It spills over, urgent and hot and incredible, and I’m crying out, legs shaking with the force of it as I empty myself onto the floor, my cock jerking again and again. 

When it’s all over, there’s a rushing in my ears and my heart is beating crazily. Professor Malfoy is still watching me, and I swear there’s a look of raw hunger on his face, but then he seems to gather himself together and a frown takes its place.

I rub my sleeve over my damp, sweaty face. I’m trembling, and I sag against the desk, but hell, I feel fantastic, and I’m grinning my face off.

Professor Malfoy stands up abruptly and walks to the blackboard, taking a couple of deep breaths with his back to me. He runs his hands through his hair and adjusts his robes. 

I just loll there on the desk for a minute – I’m so relaxed I can hardly move – before starting to pull up my pants. 

Professor Malfoy turns around and glares at me. “You filthy boy,” he snaps. He points at the floor, where my spunk has landed. Man, I really came _a lot_. Part of me is mortified, but for now I can’t do anything except smile at him. I just feel that good.

His frown deepens. “Clean that up at once. And look at the state of your uniform. Make yourself decent.” 

It’s an effort, but I cast a quick spell at the mess on the floor and then finish wriggling back into my pants and trousers. 

“I think you’ve shown that you are perfectly capable of taking instruction,” he tells me. “I’ll be expecting much more from you in the future.”

I swallow hard. Does he mean at Potions… or—? 

“Is that clear?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“And Albus…” His voice is stern but his eyes are gleaming. “Don’t you dare bring your deviant thoughts to my classroom again or I’ll be forced to deal with you in the same way.” 

_Fuck_. I would have sworn my cock was completely spent, but it still manages to twitch in approval.

***

After the boy has gone, I retrieve the hip flask and take a long swallow. I should really finish this loathsome marking… but I think it may be wise to retire to my chambers for a while instead.

Young Potter’s face as he left… the way he thanked me. His hands were still shaking. But best of all is the memory of the tormented arousal on his face as I tutored him in how to touch himself. 

Oh, the things I could teach him. About potions, and other matters of interest.

I raise the hip flask in a silent toast of congratulation: to another successful week, spent in the noble task of educating Hogwarts’ finest.

**Author's Note:**

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